Homicide in High Heels (24 page)

Schwimmer crossed back to his desk and sank
into his chair, his shoulders slumping as if all the fight had just
drained out of them. "Yes, it's true, Ratski is gay."

"Not only gay, but the two of you are
involved, aren't you?" I said.

Schwimmer looked at me in surprise for
moment but didn't bother to deny it. Instead he nodded slowly. "We
have been for a few years now. But if there's one thing that
America can't forgive a sports hero for being it's a homosexual.
Take all the drugs you want, train dogs to maul each other, heck,
even beat your girlfriend. But heaven forbid you should fall in
love with a man."

The bitter sarcasm was thick in Schwimmer's
voice, and I couldn't say I blamed him. "How did Lacey find out?" I
asked.

Schwimmer laughed, a hollow thing that held
zero humor. "Look, in order to keep up his ruse John has this thing
where he flirts with every woman he can find. He thinks it somehow
insulates him from any question about his sexuality. Lacey was no
exception. As soon as Bucky started dating her, Ratski went through
the motions of hitting on her, just like he has all the other
players' wives, girlfriends, even their mothers, if you can believe
it." Schwimmer rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"If he hit on her, what tipped Lacey off
that it was faked?"

"Look, Lacey was a gold digger, pure and
simple. Bucky's the Stars' golden boy at the moment, so she sought
him out. But it didn't take long before Lacey realized Bucky wasn't
pulling in any real money. He had the fame but not the fortune she
was looking for. That's when she set her sights on Ratski. He
flirted with her a bit, and she thought maybe she had a chance of
becoming his mistress and getting her hands on some hush-hush
bling, at the very least.

The picture was becoming clearer in my head,
puzzle pieces falling into place. "So Lacey tried to take the
flirtation to the next level," I said.

Schwimmer nodded. "Truth is, John is a
horrible flirt," he said, the laughter in his voice real this time,
a note of affection coloring it. "It's a rare occasion when any of
his lines actually works on a woman. So when Lacey tried to take it
to the next level, John got flustered. He didn't know what to do,
and, well, let's just say there was no Oscar-worthy performance on
his part. For all of her questionable morals, Lacey was a smart
little thing. She figured it out."

"And that's when she started blackmailing
him."

Schwimmer bit his lip, pausing before he
confirmed, probably more out of habit than any real hope of denying
it at this point. "Yes. She said she would go to his wife, to the
press, to anyone who would listen to the story, unless he paid
her."

"Ten thousand a week," I said, quoting the
amount Ramirez had found mysteriously deposited into her bank
account.

Schwimmer raised an eyebrow. "Actually, no.
It was five."

I felt a frown pull between my eyebrows.
"Are you sure?"

Schwimmer nodded. "That's what John said. It
was an exorbitant amount, and I told him not to pay it. Look, three
years ago, it might've been death to his career. But with people
like Jason Collins and Michael Sam paving the way, it's only a
matter of time before more athletes come out."

"But Ratski didn't want to take that
chance."

Schwimmer shook his head, confirming it.
"No. If he was putting up numbers like Bucky's, maybe he would
have. But Ratski's not a rookie anymore. He's getting older. He
felt that if something like this were to come out, he'd be the
first expendable member of the team when his contract came up for
renewal. He said he would figure out a way to deal with Lacey, but
in the meantime he had to pay her off. "

My turn to raise an eyebrow. It was becoming
more and more likely that his way to "deal with Lacey" was an
amphetamine overdose into her tanning solution.

Schwimmer must have realized what he'd said
as his eyes suddenly got big, and some of the fight returned to the
set of his shoulders. "Look, John had nothing to do with what
happened to Lacey. He was no fan of hers, but he would never hurt
anyone like that. He's been beside himself since this whole thing
happened. Trust me, whoever did that to Lacey, it had nothing to do
with John."

While it was my gut instinct that Schwimmer
believed everything he was saying, I wasn't inclined to share his
favorable view of Ratski. Schwimmer might view Ratski as more of a
lover than a fighter, but I also knew that desperate people took
desperate measures when they were cornered. If Ratski really was
worried about his contract coming up for renewal, chances were he
didn't have an unlimited supply of cash to hand over to his
blackmailer.

I was just about to grill Schwimmer on the
shakiness of Ratski's alibi when a knock sounded at the door and
the blonde receptionist poked her head in again.

"Excuse me, Mr. Schwimmer," she said in her
evenly modulated voice. "But a client is here to see you."

"Who is it?" Schwimmer asked.

"John Ratski."

I felt myself freeze in place as if somehow
the ballplayer's radar picked up the fact that I was there grilling
his boyfriend. It took me a second before I realized how ridiculous
that was. Clearly Ratski was just there because he was having a
publicity crisis. Two days in a row he'd been featured on the
Informer
site.

"We were finished here anyway," I quickly
said, ducking my head away from the door.

I heard another pair of footsteps approach.
Fast ones. Big, baseball-sized ones, if I had to guess.

"Sorry for barging in, Theo," I heard
Ratski, his voice at the door. "I was just going to see if you
could—" Ratski stopped midsentence. Even though I had my back
turned to him, I could feel his eyes shoot to me.

"You!"

Damn. Clearly the back of my head was as
recognizable as the front. I slowly turned, doing my best toothy
smile, blinking innocent eyelashes at Ratski. "Wow, what a small
world."

While the bruises around Ratski's eyes were
fading to a garish yellow, I noticed white tape across his nose
where he'd taken the brunt of Ricky's blow. He looked like a boxer
who wasn't very good at his job. "What the hell are you doing
here?" he asked me.

By this time Schwimmer had stood up from his
desk, his eyes were pinging between the two of us, his dark brows
pulled into a frown. "You two know each other?"

"Uh…" I started.

"Oh, hell, yeah we do," Ratski said, his
voice veering into dangerous territory. "This is the wife of that
jerk cop who hit me."

"Hey, you started it," I protested.

Schwimmer turned to me, a sudden fire in his
formerly soft eyes. "You told me you were a reporter."

"Well, technically, I said I was
with
the
Informer
. Which I sort of was. Earlier today…" I trailed
off.

"Look, I don't know what sort of game you
and your husband are playing," Ratski said, crossing the room in
quick strides. The look in his eyes was pure anger, the clench of
his hands menacing. No matter what Theodore Schwimmer said, in that
split second I could easily see Ratski killing someone.

Unfortunately, at the moment that someone
was me.

"Look, I don't want any trouble here…" I
said, circling away from him, toward the open door.

"Well trouble is what you got, sister,"
Ratski informed me. His hand shot out, grabbing onto my arm.

In my defense what happened next was pure
instinct. Maybe Ratski just meant to propel me toward the door.
Maybe he was trying to keep me from getting any closer to
Schwimmer. Or maybe he meant to strangle the life out of me. But as
soon as his fingers clenched around my upper arm, I swung my purse
with my right hand as hard as I could in the region of his
face.

"Sonofa—" Ratski yelled, immediately letting
go of me as both hands flew to his face. He staggered backward a
few paces putting distance between us.

Distance I only increased by quickly
backpedaling toward the door where the stunned receptionist was
still standing, watching the entire scene unfold.

"Look what you did!" Ratski shouted. Blood
gushed between his fingers, and as soon as he took his hands away
from his face I could see that for the third time in as many days
Ratski had a bloody nose.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod," Schwimmer
chanted, rushing to his boyfriend's side. "Quick, grab some
tissues. Call a doctor. Bring my car around."

The receptionist ran off to her desk to do
one, two, or all three of the tasks being thrown at her.

With everyone's attention otherwise
occupied, I took my opportunity to escape and quickly shot out the
door. I took the stairs two at a time down to the ground floor and
would have jogged to the end of the block if I hadn't been wearing
heels. As it was, I power-walked quickly enough to put a
mall-er-sizer to shame. I didn't feel safe again until I was inside
my car with the doors locked. I felt my breath coming out in quick
pants, my hands shaking at having been manhandled by a possible
murderer.

I took a couple of deep breaths before I
pulled out my cell and dialed my husband's number.

"Hey, babe," came his answer. I could hear
the sound of children giggling in the background. It was comforting
and immediately helped to slow my rapid heartbeat.

"I just hit somebody. Hard. In the face," I
said, my words coming out in a barely coherent rush.

"What happened? Are you okay?" Ramirez
asked. The urgency in his own voice suddenly had me feeling guilty.
Truth was, I was fine. I might have a bruise on my arm later, but
Ratski had taken the brunt of the encounter.

I took another deep breath and let it out
slowly. "Yes, I'm fine. Now. I just…wanted to let you know that
there might be some assault charges filed against me in the near
future." I cringed, only halfway joking.

"Who did you hit?" Ramirez asked, his voice
still tight and clipped with emotion.

I scrunched up my nose, wincing at the
words. "John Ratski."

To my surprise I heard laughter on the other
end of the phone. "Babe," he said. "Take a number. Who hasn't hit
John Ratski this week?"

As soon as I filled Ramirez in on all the
gory details, he assured me he would call a buddy at the precinct
to head off any assault charges filed against me. Then I hung up
and dialed Dana's number. Three rings in I heard her breathless
voice answer.

"Hello?" she panted.

"Uh…did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No. This is…" pant, pant "…fine. Why?"

"You sound just a little out of breath," I
told her, squinting my eyes shut, so I didn't picture visions of
her and Ricky doing something I so did not want to interrupt.

"Just at the gym," she said between puffs of
breath. "No shooting today, so I thought I'd take the opportunity
to get a workout in. Man, I'm out of shape."

Out of shape for Dana meant that she was
only in
half
marathon mode. Prior to her acting career
taking off, Dana had been an aerobics instructor, spending
eight-plus hours a day leading spin classes, Pilates, kickboxing,
and more. I would never say so to Ricky, but I had a feeling Dana
could actually lift more than he could.

"I don't suppose you're in the mood for
lunch?" I asked. I quickly filled her in on my run in with
Ratski.

Dana did all the appropriate "ohmigods" and
"no freaking ways" throughout the conversation, ending with a
promise to meet me in twenty minutes at a place called Sprouts on
Highland.

I'd never heard of the place, but with a
name like Sprouts I was tempted to grab a drive-through burger on
the way. However, I was also desperate to go over the latest
development in our case with Dana, so I put my car in gear and
headed toward the freeway.

Twenty-five minutes later I finally found
parking on the street two blocks down from the restaurant. Which,
as I approached it, looked just as healthy as I'd feared. The sign
above the restaurant was fashioned like a large green alfalfa
sprout scrolling through the letters. While the interior looked
chic enough to be the new "It" lunch hotspot��dark wood floors,
white walls, bright colorful geometric artwork, and sleek chrome
tables and chairs scattered throughout the dining area—I wrinkled
my nose at the scents coming out of the kitchen. None of them
smelled greasy or bacony. I had a feeling this place was my penance
for all the takeout I'd been eating lately.

I spotted Dana right away. She was at a
table off to the side, near the far wall. She was still wearing her
workout-wear of black spandex shorts, hot pink Nike running shoes,
and a neon yellow sports top under a black asymmetrical collar
sweatshirt. Though I noticed she had a ball cap and sunglasses on,
presumably to fend off any further paparazzi pics ending up on the
homepage of the
Informer
's website.

"Hey," I said, sliding into the empty seat
across from her. "Sorry, parking was a nightmare. Have you been
waiting long?"

Dana shook her head. "No. But I ordered us
both drinks."

I raised an eyebrow. Drinks might make this
day better.

"Raspberry alfalfa kale shakes," Dana added,
her eyes twinkling behind her semi-tinted glasses.

Then again, maybe not so much.

"So, tell me everything about Ratski's
publicist," Dana insisted, leaning both elbows on the table.

I did, spilling everything Schwimmer had
told me about Lacey blackmailing Ratski. "But he swears Ratski had
nothing to do with her murder."

Dana scoffed. "Of course he does. What's he
gonna do? Rat out not only his best client, but his boyfriend?"

I had to agree. Schwimmer was in no position
to be objective.

"Okay, I have a question," Dana said, as our
drinks arrived.